


Global Misdeeds

by ShiningFrost



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Berlin (City), Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Post-Canon, World Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-01 19:40:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17250191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShiningFrost/pseuds/ShiningFrost
Summary: Yusuke and Futaba travel the world.Chapter 2: Yusuke gets pickpocketed in Berlin.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I got nostalgic looking at old travel pics, which apparently spurs me to write Yutaba.

“It’s a hideous abomination,” moaned Yusuke.

He tossed his paintbrush aside and missed the cup holder. It hit the carpet, flinging droplets of red paint on top of the long-dried specks of blues, yellows, and greens already there. Neither Yusuke nor Futaba ever bothered to clean messes from his art projects. Why waste their time? They’d hire some professional to clean the carpets upon moving out.

Futaba picked up the brush and placed a hand on Yusuke’s shoulder. He looked up at her with a forlorn stare reminiscent of Morgana playing a starving stray and begging strangers for a piece of their meal - though unlike Morgana, Yusuke was entirely sincere. She bit her lip to keep from smiling.

The hideous abomination in question was his newest painting, tentatively named Zeal. Red streaks and swirls speared through an abstract woman’s face modeled after herself. Futaba had told him he could paint other women - he’d drawn enough ten foot portraits of her that she was past insecurity for his affections - but Yusuke had insisted others’ beauty no longer appealed to him and using them as references would slow his creative processes down. Futaba had blushed, rolled her eyes, and replied he was cornier than a budget otome game (and had then jotted down his exact words into a password-protected Google doc).

“It looks great,” she said, knowing full well Yusuke wouldn’t accept her condolences. But like going through the same tutorial mission for each New Game+, sometimes you had to bear the drudgery before you got anywhere. “Reminds me of your other one, the Fool’s Glazebo.”

Yusuke clutched his forehead. “Exactly my predicament. I am retreading old ground instead of pushing myself to further investigate the human condition.”

“Nothing wrong with working a winning formula, so long as you mix it up a bit each time. Pokemon’s still going strong.”

“With the mediocre quality of my output, the Fallout series would be a more apt representation of my progression.” Yusuke had played many more video games since their relationship began. It was a non-negotiable condition Futaba had established early on.

She scratched her forehead. This self-critical whining wasn’t new. Yusuke always complained about his works in the early stages, as regular as an Assassin’s Creed release. He usually got over it, and if waiting the moods out didn’t work, Futaba kicking his butt rebooted the system. Still, his complaints were increasing in frequency…

“You need inspiration,” she said. Yusuke thrived on change, on exploration, on discovery. Their Phantom Thieves adventures had sustained his creativity for a while; the start of their relationship spurred another long bout. With those catalysts for his art, he’d had his works displayed at Ueno, Teien, and a dozen other galleries, but he always hungered for more. “Wanna go to Kamakura this weekend?”

Yusuke slumped, then nodded. “As vibrant as Tokyo is, I’ve spent the majority of my life here. Even if I cannot find my muse elsewhere, some time away might allow me to view our city with fresh eyes.”

“I’m all for it.” She patted his arm. “But no more arthropods for our collection.”

During their last weekend trip to Kofu, Yusuke had purchased an eight inch tarantula after she’d left him alone for fifteen minutes. Futaba had allowed him to keep it, because hiding the spider in Ryuji’s apartment turned out to be great for a laugh (the public agreed; she’d gone viral with her videos of Ryuji freaking out). Besides, Haru cooed over ‘Pepper’, and she’d be heartbroken if Futaba gave him away. Disappointing Haru would rack up the same amount of bad karma as continuously crushing a five year old in Super Smash Bros.

“Pepper is secluded on land, whereas Watatsumi and Ahurani are beholden to water,” protested Yusuke. “Do you not think Pepper deserves a closer cousin to keep it company?

“Pepper doesn’t get along with its family.” Futaba took her phone out and pulled up a YouTube video of a scorpion fighting a shrew. She pressed play and set it near Pepper’s cage. “The most he’ll tolerate is a Skype session.”

Glass clinked as Pepper charged a grasshopper, who’d been minding its own business for the two hours since Yusuke first dropped it into the cage. It tried to hop away, but a swipe of Pepper’s claws brought it down. If any life remained after the cut, it was quickly snuffed out as Pepper sunk its claws onto the grasshopper’s body.

A stranger would be aghast that Yusuke couldn’t find inspiration in their apartment. He and Futaba were both hoarders, to the point where Makoto refused to meet here because it gave her a headache and a compulsion to clean. Every centimeter of their wall, and some of the ceiling, was covered with prints of masked heroes wielding swords (Futaba’s, purchased from conventions) and twisting shapes with bold colors and dramatic angles (Yusuke’s, duplicates from his exhibit works). Knick-knacks piled on their shelves: a plush of a winged lion from an anime, clay models of colorful sushi (chipped, from when Yusuke had mistaken them for real food during a sleep-deprived painting session), a Moomin troll Ann had brought back from Helsinki.

Futaba picked up the Moomin figurine. Ann had raved about the open markets and the lingonberry pies (she’d meant to save one for them, but it hadn’t survived her appetite on the flight home). Said that despite how lonely her childhood had been, she’d missed parts of Finland.

Ann wasn’t the only Phantom Thief to travel overseas. Akira had studied abroad in Santiago for one summer and in Milan the next. Haru, as the largest stakeholder in Okumura Foods, went on regular business trips to London, Singapore, and New York. Futaba and Yusuke had gone to America for Kosei field trips, but ever since high school graduation? Nada.

“We should get outta Japan,” she said. “See someplace new.”

Yusuke’s eyes flickered to her, then fell on the Moomin. “That might indeed be reinvigorating,” he said slowly, “to be immersed in a different culture.”

“Exactly! The Sayuri’s great, but you’ve spent your entire life inspired by traditional Japanese art. Time to unlock a new a skill tree.”

Yusuke straightened his back and stood up, then scratched his chin thoughtfully. “But you have your work. Do you have enough vacation days remaining to take an extended trip?”

Her chest warmed. He wouldn’t go abroad without her. The man didn’t like leaving her behind for a week’s promotional tour to a city an hour away. “All I need is a Wi-Fi connection. So long as I finish my projects, my boss doesn’t care where I work. I only go into the office for the free lunches.”

Yusuke blinked. “You never bring home extra food.”

“I spent a year training you to spend more than two thousand yen a week on groceries. I’m not doing anything that might reset your stats.”

A large smile unfurled on Yusuke’s face, a bright and dazzling one perfect for Pixar concept art. The one that made her heart do the same cartwheeling thing that summoning her persona used to do.

Blushing, Futaba jumped to her laptop. They’d been dating for five years. Shouldn’t she have a resistance to his smile’s charm effect by now? Even the memory of it made her do stupid things, like stand around oblivious with a goofy grin, allowing Ryuji to sneak up on her and chuck a pie in her hair (it wasn’t even good pie. Stale and way too sweet).

Futaba opened up Excel. “Make yourself useful and help me plan the mission.”

 **FUTABA** : yo Makoto, grab two passports for Inari and me

 **FUTABA** : we’re going on vaycay!!! Ｏ(≧▽≦)Ｏ

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! I’d like to say my 2019 resolution would be to finish a multi-chapter fic before starting a new one, but uh...that seems unattainable, so it’s just gonna be a general Write More Yutaba? :D;
> 
> First stop: Berlin, Germany


	2. Pickpocketed in Berlin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yusuke gets pickpocketed in Berlin.

Rain never daunted Futaba’s exuberance, and she struck one outlandish pose after another without bothering to turn up her hood. Yusuke snapped pictures with his DSLR camera, an impulsive purchase during one of his somber moods when he’d been sure his painting talent was abandoning him and he’d better train himself in another art specialty. Once he had recovered from the clutches of self doubt, he had tried to return it. Surprisingly Futaba, who usually forced him to return gratuitous purchases at (model) gunpoint, suggested they keep it so she could take higher quality pictures of her poseable figures.

“You want a picture too?” asked Futaba.

Yusuke handed her the camera, making sure the strap looped around her neck before letting go. He trusted her with his secrets, his feelings, and his life, but less so with expensive, fragile items.

He stepped in front of the Brandenburg Gate. Looming upwards in straight lines, it was a beautiful neoclassical construct even under the gloomy pitter patter of rain. As Futaba counted down from three, he raised his hands to the clouded sky in an homage to the goddess of victory sitting triumphantly on top of the gate.

The camera flashed, and Yusuke returned to Futaba. “One of us together now.” He loosened his bag and took hold of his tripod.

Futaba rolled her eyes. “Just ask someone to take a picture for us.”

“A stranger would have no stake in ensuring the highest quality picture possible. What if they have no eye for a decent composition? Or run off with the camera?”

“Our Reichstag appointment’s at 3:15 PM. You’ll spend three hours fidgeting with the tripod to get fifty marginally different angles, and we’ll miss it.”

“The process would be expedited if you would not insist on blinking in half the pictures.”

Futaba pushed him at a tourist with an even larger camera around her neck.

She cheerfully agreed to take the picture, but Yusuke twitched as she reached for his camera. He glanced over his shoulder at Futaba. She tapped her watch with a stern look. Biting back a sigh, he passed the camera to the friendly tourist.

Futaba snuggled at his side. Yusuke put at an arm around her waist but stood on the balls of his feet. Their helper had not put the strap around her neck, and he wanted to be ready to dash and catch the camera at the first sign of gravity’s hold.

“Why’re you exaggerating our height difference?” asked Futaba. She yanked him downwards as the camera flashed.

The tourist skipped back to them, giving Yusuke heart palpitations as his camera swung back and forth. She handed him the camera (this time, a sigh of relief escaped him) and said,“Check to make sure it’s good.”

The picture depicted Futaba glaring at Yusuke and pulling him down with a handful of his jacket. Yusuke stood on one foot, with wide eyes and his other leg scrambling in the air as he attempted to regain balance.

Aghast, Yusuke said, “We absolutely—”

“Love it,” chirped Futaba, stabbing Yusuke’s hip with a pointy elbow. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome!” The tourist clapped her hands and wandered off whistling.

Yusuke rubbed the spot where Futaba had hit him. “This picture is an abomination.”

Futaba grinned. “I’m getting it framed.”

“Is that atrocious poster in our kitchen not enough of a blemish in our apartment?”

“That’s a classic anime.”

“Even taking into consideration a stylized art form, those characters’s proportions are hideous. Their torsos are thinner than their heads! It asks too much of my suspension of disbelief.”

“I know it’s tough to be reminded you’re not the only one shaped like a giraffe. We’ll get through this tragedy toge—hey!” She poked him in the wrist, knocking the cursor off the trashcan button. “I have half rights to that pic, no touchey.”

“But—”

Futaba swiped the camera and looped it around her neck. She waggled a finger in front of him.

Yusuke put on his best puppy dog face, the one where he scrunched his eyebrows and stuck out his bottom lip a smidge. It was the one that had finally convinced Futaba to let him breed his own crickets for Pepper. Though he feared its power would wane with overuse, withholding it was difficult when it produced such quick, positive results.

Right on cue, Futaba’s expression softened. “Tell ya what, I’ll get you another one of those Bratwursts.”

…well, he’d already lived with that poster for three years. What was another demented art piece, if it was for Futaba’s happiness? “One with curry?”

“I’ll throw in fries.”

Yusuke brightened.

Futaba left to grab the food, and he took out his sketchbook. With quick, crisp lines, Yusuke sketched her bouncing on her heels at the food stand. A simple scene, but not so long ago Futaba buying anything alone would be an excursion worthy of celebratory sushi. He was proud of her. It was an honor to witness and chronicle her growth.

Shadows fell onto his paper.

Yusuke looked up into two faces, both wearing a look that reminded him of the nature documentaries he watched with Futaba. Specifically, the part when Galapagos racer snakes chased down iguana hatchlings. He pushed down the unkind thoughts. Judging appearances was acceptable for potential painting subjects, but using it as a meter of another’s character was indefensible.  
  
“Speak English?” asked the taller one in an accent Yusuke could not place. It was dissimilar to the ones he had heard so far. The stranger must hail from a different Germanic region, with a speech as distinct to a Berliner tongue as a Kansai-ben was to Yusuke’s own.

“A little.” Unlike Futaba, who spoke English with quick bursts of breaths, Yusuke dragged out each syllable to improve his enunciation.

He had barely gotten the words out when a clipboard was shoved over his sketchbook and into his chest. Yusuke staggered backwards, catching himself on the wall behind him.

The tall one tapped the paper with a pen. “Please sign.” He held the pen out.

Yusuke took the clipboard, bracing it on top of his sketchbook. At the top of the flimsy sheet (24 lb at most) scrolled ‘UNICEF: Donate to Help Starving Children. Minimum Donation: 5 Euros.’ in English. Scribbled underneath were a dozen signatures next to the donated amounts.

He shrugged apologetically. “No money.” Futaba carried both his cards and their cash reserves. She did not trust him overseeing his own money and required her approval for any transaction over five thousand yen. Though Yusuke had first complained that overkill, he had grudgingly admitted to an approving Makoto that his credit had never been so stellar.

“Anything helps. One euro, two.”

“Sorry, no change.” Guilt edged its serrated blade into Yusuke. It stung him, to finally be well off after a childhood of poverty and yet unable to donate to the less fortunate. He ought to petition Futaba for some pocket money to keep on hand.

“No problem, no problem. Signature helps too. All we need is a signature.”

A signature he could provide. Yusuke, who had spent dozens of hours perfecting his own, signed his name in both kanji and English with sweeping strokes. To his chagrin, the ballpoint pen ruined the aesthetics of his autograph. He reached into his bag, fishing for his calligraphy pen. “Wait, let me re—”

The man yanked the clipboard back, then dashed down the street and pushed away an elderly pedestrian in his path. His friend was hot on his heels with equal speed and rudeness, knocking a coffee out of the hands of a well-dressed local.

Yusuke blinked once, and by the time his eyes reopened, the pair had vanished. Odd, to be in such a hurry while collecting donations. Perhaps they were late in meeting their fellow volunteers to organize their collections?

Still, it would have slowed them mere seconds to go around the foot traffic. Yusuke picked up the senior’s cane and listened politely to her rant. Though he could not understand a word of the frantic German, based on the spit hitting his shirt and the wild gesticulations in the pair’s direction, nothing positive was said. He punctuated her tirade with frequent nods and sympathetic hums, which seemed to calm her. She patted his shoulder and left as the whiff of paprika and onions reached his nose.

Salivating, Yusuke took the cardboard container from Futaba. “Two Currywurst? You do me and my stomach much honor.”

“Some lucky scientist is gonna make the perfect weight-loss drug by studying your stomach.” She took his hand. “Onto Reichstag!”

* * *

The glass dome stretched into the gray sky. Its large windows and inner mirror core caught the few rays of sunlight managing to pierce through the clouds, making the dome dazzle and glimmer. Yusuke could have spent hours - days - observing the architecture alone, and he would have tried if Futaba had not yanked him into the queued line with a strength borne of much practice.

Inside was equally spectacular. Yusuke and Futaba spiraled upwards along the walkway, and it took all of his self control (with an occasional push from his girlfriend) to not stop every meter to sketch the Berlin landscape, with the Fernsehturm radio towering over the city and the famous five museums dotting the Spree River.

Once they reached the top, Futaba handed him her phone. “Use those noodle arms for good and take a selfie for our friends.”

“My arms deserve a more dignified descriptor,” said Yusuke, bending his knees to match Futaba’s height, “for the five hundred yen it saved us on a selfie stick.”

“Your elbows jabbing into me on the plane was a thousand yen’s worth of annoyance.”

Yusuke tilted his head next to Futaba’s and tapped the button. Instead of the tell-tale click of success, the words ‘Cannot Take Photo - there is not enough available storage’ appeared on the screen.

Yusuke shook the phone. “Did you not transfer your existing pictures to external storage before the trip?”

“Well, yeah, but our flight was twelve hours.” Futaba snatched her phone back. “Without WiFi! I had to download enough ROMs and movies to last me through technological deprivation.”

“You spent the majority of the flight asleep. My shirt is still dripping with drool stains as proof.”

“It’ll inspire you to do laundry.” Futaba blew into his face, knocking a strand of his hair loose. “C’mon, use your phone, before Haru worries we’ve been kidnapped.”

Yusuke reached into his right pocket and came up empty. Frowning, he patted the outside of his pants to confirm they were, indeed, empty. He checked his other pocket and came to the same conclusion.

It must be in his bag. He swung it to the front and dug into it. Tripod, battery charger, sketchbook, usb cable, an emergency pretzel…

Kneeling, Yusuke emptied his pack onto the floor.

Out spilled the remainder of his belongings. His calligraphy pen, a mini flash light, two smooth light gray rocks, the hotel card key, an umbrella with a dancing Squirtle print, pretzel crumbs.

Futaba’s head popped up over his shoulder “Whazzup?”

“It appears I have misplaced my phone.”

Her nails dug into his skin. “You WHAT?”

Yusuke winced at both the pricks into his neck and the shout in his ear. Without waiting for a reply, Futaba jumped to the small pile and clawed through them, scattering the trinkets in a perfect example of entropy taking over. Finding no phone, she pulled her own out and pressed speed dial, which was set to his number.

Silence.

Futaba’s fingers scrambled over her screen, pulling up the tracking app she had on his phone. Ryuji had said that was creepy when Yusuke had offhandedly mentioned it to him. For his part, Yusuke thought it was uncharacteristically romantic of Futaba, to want to know his location at all times and make sure he was safe. Then again, she was the only woman he had ever dated, so his baseline was probably skewed.

Her app must have failed to locate his phone, because she chucked her phone into her jacket and stood, facing him with her hands on her hips. “How’d you misplace it!?” Her words spilled into each other with a panic Futaba reserved for emergencies, like when all the shops had sold out the limited edition release of a highly anticipated video game. “You had it at lunch!”

“I have not taken it out since,” Yusuke insisted. He scrunched his face as he retraced his steps. “After lunch, we headed to the Brandenburg Gate. You went to get the Currywurst, I talked to those UNICEF volunteers and that elderly wom-”

“Volunteers?” Futaba’s voice was sharp. “From UNICEF?”

“They asked for donations, but I had nothing to give. Speaking of which, could I carry some euros for these—”

“Didn’t you read the signs!?”

His blank look was enough of an answer. Futaba pointed to a laminated piece of paper hanging near the railway.

SCAM WARNING: DO NOT SIGN OR DONATE

Below the English words was a copy of the exact form Yusuke had signed and general safety tips for preventing pickpocketing.

…oh. That explains the hurry, then.

“I…must have missed them.” Yusuke scanned the path to the exit. Outrunning Futaba should be simple. He had not maintained his physical training after they brought down Mementos, but she was comfortably bottom of the Phantom Thieves for athletic ability. The danger was in anger boosting her speed.

Futaba flailed her arms. “How!?” She did not use an inside voice. Bystanders shot them odd looks, but she did not notice. Yusuke did, and hoped they would dodge him if the need came to flee. “They’re everywhere. Hanging by the ticket booths and the subway station’s walls. Our hotel lobby had _three_.“

Yusuke took a tentative step back. She immediately lunged forward and grabbed his shirt.

He swallowed. Futaba left clothes on the floor and reused dirty Tupperware without bothering to rinse it, but she guarded her gadgets like Morgana did sushi. Unfortunately, she had extended that protectiveness to Yusuke’s devices, who before meeting her did not have a case for his chipped phone.

“It seemed wasteful to focus on papers while traveling.” Talking was difficult with her fists against his chest. Yusuke tried to shift, but Futaba’s iron grip held him immobile. “Especially ones with English words. I was preoccupied with observing the locals and the architecture.”

Futaba let go of his shirt and massaged her forehead. Yusuke knew that look. It was the same one from when she discovered his laptop had no antivirus software, the one she wore when he clicked on bold, flashing advertisements.

“My app couldn’t track your phone,” she muttered. “Last known location was fifty meters of the Brandenburg Gate. They must’ve turned it off or taken the battery out.”

Yusuke adjusted his shirt collar. “Perhaps we should let it go. After all, it is only a phone—”

“It has all your contact information! And pictures. You stored your passwords in there.” Her voice struck a low, mournful tone, and she swayed side to side.

Frowning, he extended his arms, ready to catch her if she fell. Seeing her upset felt, as Ryuji would say, like Utter Shit, and that he was the root cause made a dark thundercloud grapple in his chest. The loss of his phone itself unconcerned him. He had not upgraded it since high school. Retrieving contacts would be a simple matter; Futaba had the Phantom Thieves’ numbers, and he had the emails of his artist network. The few pictures he treasured, all of them of his friends, had already been printed in canvas and displayed in golden Baroque frames (to afford them, he had gone without heat in a cold winter and had consumed ramen at such frequency that his blood pressure shot up exponentially, worrying his doctor and necessitating medicine).

However, technology meant things to Futaba that it did not to him. To her, it was a symbol of their relationship, of late night conversations while the rest of their friends slept. Their relationship had started with her texting him on April Fool’s asking him on a date. Yusuke had been so sure it was a joke that he had not bothered to verify its legitimacy with Akira, the Phantom Thieves’ undisputed relationship expert.

“The day is young yet,” said Yusuke slowly. “The thieves are likely still out there, swindling people. We could locate them ourselves and exact justice.”

“Berlin has, what, four million people?” moaned Futaba. “We’ll never find ‘em in the midst of all these Joe Schmoes.”

“One of them was several centimeters shy of my height. He had a frayed gray jacket over a cream tee, with a coffee stain near the collar. His hazel skin had warm undertones, and his nose was flat. The other wore navy vest and an oversized black cap that hid his face. Both wore jeans, the taller one with a lovely burgundy shade, and the other an olive-gray.”

A small grin etched its way onto Futaba’s face, and it pierced the gloom like the shimmering lions on the Ishtar Gate. “Your memory for stalking people is serial killer tier, yet you can’t remember A is for accelerate.”

“It changes based on the console. I cannot be expected to stay up to date on all sixteen of them. Are you certain we cannot part with any of them…?”

“You keep your fourth grade scrapbooking project, I keep my Atari.” She scooped his possessions into the bag, though she took a bite of the pretzel before shoving it inside.“You really think we can find those scammers?”

“No.” Yusuke never lied, not to get an extra day of studying and certainly not to her. “But they first asked if I spoke English. I presume they are targeting foreigners and operating in tourist hotspots. We are intending to visit those areas anyways, so we might as well keep an eye out.”

Futaba perked up. “Multitasking quests, good idea. Let’s get ‘em!”

* * *

Two hours later, as they rested on a bench next to the graffitied remnants of the Berlin Wall, Yusuke was ready to give up.

In truth, he would have given up an hour and fifty minutes ago, but having a quest gave Futaba a second wind after a day’s worth of activities. With his sketches of the culprits in hand (“dude, you should ask Makoto if the police are hiring forensic artists”), she bounced from one spot to the next. She had bought a plaid beret and a large magnifying glass (“gotta have props to roleplay a detective”) and had taken to peering through the lens to others’ noses whether or not their clothes fit Yusuke’s descriptions.

Her enthusiasm boosted his own energy. The sites they visited on their speedrun tour faded into the background as he focused on her, on her hair whipping in the chilly wind, on the clasp of her hand in his as she pulled him to yet another potential suspect. He loved her eagerness, loved that she desired to help him. Loved her.

* * *

“It is 3 AM in Tokyo,” said Makoto, with an acidness generally reserved for berating delinquents who committed felonies. “Was this an emergency worth waking me up for?”

“It’s his _phone_! How is it _not_ an emergency?”

“Futaba, I have to report to the Security Bureau in three hours. If I get kicked out for bad behavior due to sleep deprivation, my living expenses until retirement are on you.”

Click. Makoto’s line went dead.

Futaba scowled and folded her arms over the desk. “She has no sense of priorities.”

“I am uncertain if she could have done much to help from the other side of the world,” said Yusuke from his reclined position on the hotel bed.

“Doesn’t the NPA have some international division?” She clasped her arms and stretched. “I’ll send a PSA to Medjed. We have a couple German members that can keep a lookout on the black market here.”

Yusuke gave a polite, noncommittal grunt.

He watched her type, smashing the keys with ferocity. A bystander might be concerned she was angry, but Yusuke knew that was simply how she typed - fast and with passion. “I should have paid closer attention to my belongings. This vacation was not intended to put stress on you, especially on my behalf.”

Futaba glanced at him, though she never stopped typing. “It was a useless hunk of metal anyways. We can finally get you a new phone.”

“I am aware I can be unobservant of my surroundings.” He paused as she snorted. “I have been willing to bear the burden of my obliviousness, be it a missed train or walking into a telephone pole. But it was selfish to not consider how it would affect those I care about. Particularly when it is you.”

To his surprise, a faint blush appeared on her cheeks. Yusuke had attempted to chart these instances but could find no discernible pattern. Simple, odd things like their neighbor’s newborn kittens crawling over him would make her flush. Intentional attempts to be suave and romantic ended in her clutching her abdomen in full body-shaking laughter.

Futaba ducked her head. “Don’t worry about it. I’d rather have you like this, ready to believe the best in people even after Madarame. Beats turning into an Akechi-like psychopath.”

“Still, I am sorry.”

She set her laptop aside and leaped at him. He caught her by the waist, and her hair fell onto his bare arm. Goosebumps rose where her soft locks touched his skin.

“Guess you’ll have to make it up to me.” Her smile was wicked and delectable. He filed it for later drawing; though he was not one to procrastinate in artistic endeavors, his increasing arousal would not let him give that smile the attention it deserved.

Futaba straddled him, and her eyes lit up at his moan.

“I am at your command.” Yusuke wrapped his arms around her neck and kissed her, long and hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like Yusuke, I too missed all the warning flyers displayed everywhere in Berlin. Unlike Yusuke, I smelled something fishy and pushed away the clipboard in time to catch his partner’s hand in my pocket, holding my phone. And...that’s when my dumb self learned that the correct answer to “Do you speak English?” is a blank look, and the correct location of your phone is not in your outer pocket. 
> 
> Anyways, I’m trying to be more active on Twitter. If any of you would like to aid me in this endeavor, I’m over @ShiningFrost13. :) I’ll keep my writing schedule updated on my profile there too.
> 
> Next stop: San Juan, Puerto Rico.


End file.
